Skink--No Surrender

  “You’re wrong, Richard.”

  The woodpecker quit drumming and cocked its head to scope us out. I wished it had been an ivorybill, but it wasn’t.

  “Still very cool,” I said to my cousin.

  She snorted. “You think you know everything.”

  The bird gave several high-pitched squawks and took off. I sat down beside Malley and removed my own wet sneakers. Above us the tree limbs looked stark except for wispy flags of Spanish moss that reminded me of the governor’s beard. In front of us the Choctawhatchee rolled high and fast, creamy with mud. Overnight it had carried the damaged houseboat downstream, and possibly engulfed it.

  “Decision time, Richard. Do we stay here or make a run for it?”

  There was a third option, too, but I said, “Let’s wait here for some fishermen to come along. Somebody’ll have a phone we can use.”

  “But what about your one-eyed, leech-slurping friend?”

  “I know.” Skink wouldn’t want us to go searching for him, though Malley and I were both thinking about it.

  “There’s a reason he shoved us off the boat,” I said.

  “Something really bad could happen to him. Tommy’s totally whacked.”

  “Tommy’s in over his head.”

  I told her some of what I knew about Skink, starting with Vietnam. How later he was elected governor, got depressed, freaked out and disappeared. How he lives off eating roadkill. How he lost his left eye to thugs. I mentioned there were crazy rumors on the Internet, but nobody could prove a thing. I told her about him fighting the turtle-egg robber on the beach, about the gray getaway car that mysteriously had been left in town for him. How it was his idea to come save her from T.C. How his foot got run over when was he saving the baby skunk.

  I ended with a description of the canoe being pulled away by a gigantic alligator, Skink plunging in after it.

  My cousin said, “God, but he’s so old. He’s, like, older than Grandpa Ed, and Grandpa Ed couldn’t wrestle a gecko.”

  “The governor’s a serious freak of nature.”

  “You think he’s gonna hurt Tommy?”

  “That’ll depend on Tommy’s attitude.”

  “I hope he does,” she said. “Hurt him. Does that sound terrible? I don’t care.”

  “Did Tommy hurt you?”

  The sun was sneaking over the treetops, warming our arms and legs. Malley was braiding her hair into two long strands, scowling at the black dye job.

  “He kissed me a couple times,” she said, “which I told him to knock off. When he didn’t, I slugged him in the nose. You should’ve seen the mess, like a rotten tomato exploded on his face. After that was when he brought out the handcuffs.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “Online he came across so different, so … normal. And not mean at all. He emailed me this one poem—‘a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair.’ Said he wrote it late one night just for me, and like an airhead I’m all, ‘Oh, Talbo, that’s so sweet!’

  “Then he picks me up at the airport in Orlando, and after a day or two he isn’t sounding so much like a great poet. So I Google a few lines of his masterpiece and guess what? He stole it from Alfred Lord Tennyson, or Lord Alfred Tennyson, whatever. Some English writer who died like a hundred years ago. I called Tommy out on it, and that’s when he smashed my laptop. I was so pissed.”

  “When did you find out he wasn’t Talbo Chock?”

  My cousin smiled ruefully. “I busted him on that deal right away. Lots of people use weird screen names, so it didn’t seem like a biggie. But, seriously, I had no idea the real Talbo was a soldier, swear to God. Turns out there’s lots of stuff about T.C. I didn’t know.”

  “Like the poet was driving a stolen car?”

  “Yeah. I figured that out when he decided to sink it.”

  “What else happened? What else did he do?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Stop worrying, you sound like Dad.”

  “Let me see your wrists.”

  “He always made the handcuffs too tight. He said he bought ’em at a gun show.”

  Behind Malley was a stand of wild azaleas, the leaves yellow and pale orange. It was a peaceful burst of color.

  “Know what I feel really bad about?” she said. “The beer and gas we brought back in the canoe—Tommy swiped all that from a house trailer on a lot about a mile down the river. The ice cubes, too. I said why don’t we leave these people some money, and he just laughed.”

  “I still feel bad about Saint Augustine. Same thing.”

  “Richard, that was so not the same thing. You were just freaked about losing your dad. I mean, dude, you don’t even like to skateboard.”

  “Stealing is stealing.”

  She said, “Hey, I’m really sorry I ever brought it up. I’d never, ever in a jillion years tell your mother, okay? But I had to say whatever so you wouldn’t rat me out, even though you did anyway, until I was far away. The scene at home, I don’t know, I was just ultra-stressed and I had to shake free. You understand? Talbo—I mean Tommy—he was my ticket out. Big mistake, no doubt. Major mistake. But, God, Mom was on my case all the time and Dad’s always takin’ her side—no way am I going to school at the Twirp Academy! Sorry, sports fans. A New Hampshire winter is not on this girl’s wish list.”

  Another blue heron glided low across the Choctawhatchee trailing its stick-thin legs the way they do. I knew it wasn’t the same one Tommy Chalmers had fired at. That poor critter was probably halfway to Mexico, and still flying.

  Malley went on: “He told me he understood everything I was going through. He said we’d just be good friends and not to worry—if I changed my mind about running away, he’d turn the car around and drive me straight home. That’s what he promised, word for word. I was so beyond stupid to believe him.”

  “That’s what liars are pro at, making people believe them.”

  “I know, right? Tommy had the nice-guy act totally down.”

  “Still, not a genius move on your part,” I said, “taking off with a stranger you met in a chat room.”

  “I really thought I could handle him, but what a psycho. That whole wedding-on-the-beach thing? Perv World.”

  The river life was waking up. We saw a fat sturgeon jump, about as graceful as a flying log. Ospreys were on patrol calling to each other. Our gaze turned downriver, and so did our thoughts.

  “That old man gets hurt or killed, it’s all on me,” Malley said. “If he ends up dead, I’ll hate myself forever.”

  “Don’t worry. He threw the pistol overboard.”

  She looked downcast. “Tommy’s got another one.”

  “Don’t tell me that.”

  “He stashed it somewhere on the boat. He didn’t want me to see where, ’cause he said I’d ‘cap’ him if I got the chance, but no way. Guns scare the pee out of me, Richard. Speaking of which, I can’t believe you jumped T.C. after he shot at that bird! You went all Vin Diesel on him!”

  “Another opposite-of-genius move,” I said.

  It was bad news that Tommy Chalmers had stashed a second gun aboard. I told myself everything would work out all right—Tommy was weakened and woozy from the catfish infection. He probably wouldn’t even remember where he hid the pistol on the houseboat.

  Was the houseboat even still afloat? If so, probably not for long.

  Skink would know when it was time to abandon ship. Would he take Tommy with him? I could totally picture the governor coming out of the river alone, the kidnapper’s body being found days later in the sunken wreck.

  Or never seen again.

  From what Skink had told me about his life, I knew he was capable of such things. I also suspected that he wasn’t one to exaggerate.

  Malley was growing restless on the riverbank. “How will we get somebody to stop and pick us up?”

  “Uh, we yell ‘Help’?”

  “Not funny, Richard.”

  “I’m serious. That’s what marooned people do.”
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  She made a snarky face. “So not cool.”

  This was my cousin in full-on diva mode—too vain to call for help. Unbelievable.

  “Then yell ‘Asparagus!’ if you want,” I said. “I’m yelling ‘Help!’ ”

  As it turned out, we didn’t get a chance to yell anything. Two hours passed without a single boat appearing on the Choctawhatchee. The fishermen were staying home because the river was too churned from the storm. So far I hadn’t seen one osprey make a dive, which meant that even full-time fishing birds couldn’t find any fish. Only the occasional leaping sturgeon broke the surface.

  I told Malley we’d better get moving.

  “Which way?”

  “Back toward the highway bridge where Skink parked. We’ll walk close to the shoreline in case a boat comes by.”

  “Richard, you do see it’s a total swamp, right? Thanks to that insane rain.”

  “It was swampy before the rain,” I said.

  “Yeah, what if I want to go the other way?”

  “Be my guest. Maybe you’ll find a paved bike path with water fountains.”

  “Sometimes you’re such an ass,” said Malley.

  “Hurry, put on your shoes.”

  She went ahead of me, taking long, show-offy strides. We definitely weren’t in ninja mode—more like two buffaloes splashing through a rice paddy. Not that we were trying to sneak up on anything, just the opposite. We wanted to be heard and seen, preferably by a friendly human who could lead us to safety.

  The hiking would have gone easier if we’d had higher, drier ground, but the deep woods that lay ahead of us were low-lying and boggy. The sticky air buzzed with gnats, mosquitoes and small biting flies. I couldn’t find any wax myrtle leaves to crush and wipe on our skin.

  Hooked to her iPod earbuds, Malley could go forever. Without her music she quickly got bored and cranky. After a while I ignored the complaining, though I was tempted to say: Would you rather be back on the boat with your maniac kidnapper?

  As thirsty as we were, neither of us would drink the murky river water. The last thing we needed on our trek was an attack of jungle diarrhea. We grew tired in the heat, and our pace slowed down. Rest breaks became more frequent. We got good at slapping insects off of each other without leaving a mark.

  The sun was almost dead high, so cool patches of shade got harder to find. In the brutal humidity my cousin and I were panting like old hound dogs.

  “How long till we get there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. A while longer.”

  “This sucks, Richard.”

  The next time we stopped it was pretty much the same conversation. The time after that, Malley got superexcited and said she heard an ambulance siren, which meant we must be nearing the highway. While I wanted that to be true, I couldn’t hear anything except the rattle of cicadas in the bushes. She got mad at me, of course, and declared that we should immediately turn due west because that’s where the sound of the ambulance had come from. I said no.

  “Who made you the navigator?” she huffed.

  “I’m older.”

  “By only nine stupid days!”

  “Come on, Mal, it’s a joke. Let’s keep walking.”

  My cousin isn’t a patient person, but extreme patience is what the situation called for. It’s not as if we were lost. The Road 20 bridge wasn’t going anywhere, and we didn’t need a GPS to find it. All we had to do was follow the shoreline of the Choctawhatchee upstream. I didn’t want to be too harsh with Malley, after all she’d been through, but there was no way I’d let her take charge of our escape.

  The last time we stopped to rest, I was the one who heard a noise.

  “Somebody’s following us.”

  “Okay, you’re finally losing it, Richard.”

  “Please shut up and listen.”

  “It’s probably a deer. They’re thick around here.”

  “Not a deer,” I said. “A deer would be running the other way.”

  Something definitely was approaching us from behind, moving with zero stealth through the tangled cover and rain puddles. My first emotion was relief, because I thought it had to be the governor—the houseboat had sunk and he’d made it to shore and was trying to find us.

  “Hey, Skink!” I shouted. “This way!”

  Nobody shouted back.

  “It’s Richard! We’re over here!”

  Still no voice answered from the woods. Malley and I stood up.

  “Now I hear him,” she whispered.

  The splash of footfalls, the snapping of twigs and a muffled snort, like a man trying to swallow a laugh.

  I thought of Tommy Chalmers and my stomach pitched. What if he’d gotten hold of the second gun and shot Skink? What if he alone made it off the sinking boat, and now he was stalking me and my cousin?

  She looked at me anxiously. “Well?”

  “I say let’s wait and see.”

  “I say let’s run.”

  There was no time to continue the discussion because our stalker had materialized like a glistening ghost at the edge of the clearing. He was hunched forward, slobbering and gape-jawed, his black eyes narrowed in fury.

  “This is not happening,” Malley said in a cracked voice.

  “Don’t panic,” I told her, which was idiotic. Panic was the only logical reaction.

  “Richard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I run now?”

  “Yes, run.”

  And I was right behind her.

  NINETEEN

  One man was to blame for our present dilemma, and it wasn’t Tommy Chalmers.

  It was Hernando de Soto, the Spanish explorer. He is most famous for discovering the Mississippi River, but he did something else on his historic expedition that caused Malley and me to be running for our lives nearly five centuries later, along the banks of a different river.

  On May 25, 1539, de Soto’s flotilla sailed into Tampa Bay and pitched camp. The conquistador and his soldiers had crossed the sea carrying weapons, ammo, supplies and, for food, thirteen pigs. These were the very first pigs ever to set foot (hoof, actually) on the North American continent, and from the beginning the sturdy oinkers made it clear that they didn’t miss Europe one bit.

  If de Soto had brought cows or even goats to the New World, my cousin and I wouldn’t have been in such deep trouble. Goats and cows are grazing animals, content to hang out in a pasture and mind their own business. Not pigs. Pigs require supervision, because they’re so curious and crafty, adaptable to almost every type of habitat. They totally loved Florida, and since happy grownup pigs produce lots of baby pigs, de Soto’s pack multiplied faster than he and his men could barbecue.

  For three years the Spanish forces tramped through the southeastern wilderness terrorizing, torturing and enslaving the native Indians. This was standard operating procedure back in those days, though it doesn’t make de Soto any less of a cruel thug. Who knows how much more misery he would have inflicted on the locals if he hadn’t caught a fever and croaked. It happened soon after he reached the Mississippi, by which time his imported pig herd had grown to seven hundred slobbering mouths.

  Flash forward to the twenty-first century and a sprawling country that’s been settled from coast to coast—a country that craves a fat, juicy pork chop. Pigs are a huge business in America, raised and slaughtered by the millions. Over the decades, however, many have escaped from farm pens and scuttled into the woods, where they’ve become as wild as bobcats or coyotes—only bigger, and way more destructive.

  I researched all this myself later, though not for a new science project. I was simply curious to know all about the badass creature that nearly killed me.

  These so-called feral pigs now roam forty-five states and they party hard, destroying valuable crops and wetlands with their sloppy rooting. Some places have officially declared war on free-roaming swine and offer cash bounties to hunters. So far, the swine are winning.

  The boar chasing Malley and me must’ve we
ighed at least two hundred pounds, and that’s no lie. His long black nose was bristly, and his nappy thick fur was the color of a rusted junkyard heap. He owned two sets of filthy yellowed tusks, the bottom pair being longer and more curved. My goal was to avoid finding out how sharp they were.

  Malley was way ahead, weaving through trees, hurtling the scrub, bounding over puddles. It was ridiculous, she was so much faster than me. Every few strides she’d glance back to see if I was catching up, and I’d yell at her to keep running. “Don’t slow down! Go! Go!”

  The wild pig huffed like a locomotive at my heels. His shoulders were low to the ground, and he kept slashing his tusks in an upward motion that would have sliced the tendons in my legs, had I faltered. Only later did I learn that a boar that size can reach a speed of thirty miles an hour, much fleeter than any human, which explained why he seemed to be moving at such an easy trot.

  Optimistically I surmised that he wasn’t interested in eating me for breakfast (pigs will eat anything), but rather that he only wished to drive us out of his territory. Malley and I would have happily departed with no further encouragement, yet the beast continued his cold-eyed pursuit. If it had been a movie, Nickel the gar man would have stepped out of the bushes and plugged the pig with his .22. Then he would have grinned at me and said, “See, boy? Dint I warn you ’bout them things?”

  But that wasn’t going to happen. There was no sign of Nickel and now, ahead of me, no sign of my track-star cousin. She’d left me in the dust (well, the muck), which is what I’d urged her to do. No sense in both of us getting mauled.

  My lungs burned, my knees throbbed and I was painfully aware I’d never outrun the mad boar, undoubtedly a great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of a seafaring de Soto piglet.

  I decided to climb a tree. No big deal, right?

  Wrong. Not all trees are designed for rapid climbing, and the good ones are scarce when you absolutely, positively need to reach a safe altitude. Try scaling an ancient bald cypress when the trunk is slick from a rainstorm or the nearest boughs are too high to offer a step. It’s a sure way to end up flat on your back, staring up a hairy pair of cavernous pig nostrils.